The Veilscarred Plains seemed endless, a wasteland that is filled with dirt and fractured stones. Yet when the Crest passed through the ridge at the dawn of the eighth day, they saw the Necrotic Forest stretching before them like a wound in the land.
Kelvin paused at the ridge's edge, with his hand unconsciously brushing the hilt of Xerion, whose form rested in its dormant glaive-shape that across his back. The blade vibrated faintly, almost like a beast's growl that is caught in steel.
"I don't like the feel of this," Darius muttered, with his voice that was thick. His broad frame was silhouetted against the ashen sky, warhammer slung across his shoulder.
Lyra stood a step ahead of both of them with her dark eyes scanning the narrow path. Salaris circled high above, with its trailing black feathers that shimmered with shadow-light. "It is not just death," she said. "It is feeding. Look at those fissures. They pulse like hearts."
